Plucking Strings
by White Mage Koorii
Summary: A great many people want to know who Sheik is, why he's here, and where he came from. Sheik's the one who wants those answers the most. Eventual Slash. Mostly canon compliant.


******Fandom: **Ocarina of Time and Majora's Mask******  
Pairing: **Eventual Sheik/Link******  
Rating: **Teen (Subject to change)******  
Warnings: **Violence, Language. Male!Sheik.******  
Genre: **Action/Adventure, Drama, Friendship, Romance.******  
**

**A note on this fic:** I started working on this fic around four years ago, but was stolen away by another fandom. Just recently I decided to return to it and try to write it once more. Chapter 1 is nearing completion, but is fairly long so I have no idea when I'll have it finished. It's likely going to be slow going on this thing as time is hard to come by for me lately.

Hopefully you'll enjoy the beginnings of my own spin on this particular take fandom favorite!

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

Seven years in the future an elegant young woman lifted an ocarina to her lips and played a song to set things right. The notes dropped, spreading ripples in the fabric of time, and great magic began to stir all over the land. It weaved through time, and space, like a galactic sewing needle, though it was more like a thread picker. With a twang like a rubber band snapping, the time line was rent in two straight down the middle. As it tore, the power rose to a crescendo, crested, and exploded outward then settled back down like a hiccup in the universe. All that power still lingered, and it had to go somewhere, it was just a question of where. Luckily, or unluckily depending on intentions, someone always knew what to do with bits of excess power left laying around the universe.

It hadn't been a clean tear: bits of thread still clung between the halves, and near the back end it was still connected at an anchor point. Baba couldn't say she liked it, but she rarely liked things left half done and not properly finished. Sitting on her porch Baba watched the play of magic in the air and waited for it to finish settling. She was glad she hadn't put that Deku Souffle on earlier when she'd had a hankering. She briefly wondered who'd had the gal to go off playing with things like time lines, those were just cranky and you didn't mess with them. In the end she decided she didn't much care. Whoever it was seemed to have done well enough on her end, so that was fine. If things had turned up weird, with Like Likes sprouting wings and fluttering about like songbirds, she might have had to have words.

Baba dug her pipe out of a pocket along with her old scratched and dinged tinderbox from which she selected a bit of twig. "Well?" Baba demanded imperiously. "I need a light, you daft thing." From above her a lantern descended meekly, one glass pane flicking open to let her get a light from the candle wick, which she applied to the bowl of her pipe. Swishing out the bit of twig she tossed it away, shoved her tinderbox back in her pocket, and clacked her teeth on her pipe. She took a long draw, puffed out a breath of smoke, and watched as magic seemed to start congregating off to the west. "That's where the hot springs are," she noted. "It better not do anything funny." Baba narrowed her eyes toward the clumping magic, then snorted disdainfully. That was when the random flashes of bright light started. "At least it's putting on a show."

She sat there, rocking in her rickety creaky chair, watching the flickering light show and puffing on her pipe until there came a scream. Baba blinked, then let out a low grumble of curses. "I expect," she chuntered. "That I had best go check that out and make sure some poor fool hasn't gotten themselves turned into a skulltula again." She still hadn't forgotten that one time that family of idiots had gotten themselves cursed off in Hyrule, and for a moment she wondered if they'd ever managed to get uncursed. Baba didn't care enough to contemplate long, instead she unhooked her cane from the arm of her chair and heaved herself upright. "Down we go, dear." There was a great creak, and the hut lowered down toward the dirt. She stepped off and out she set.

As she walked, Baba cradled the bowl of her pipe in her hand, and puffed away. The woods closed around her as she left her yard to follow a barely noticeable path worn into the undergrowth by frequent travel. The mineral water from the springs always made her feel a bit better on bad days, so she'd made sure the way was kept clear for her use. The thump of her cane accompanied her, though it was otherwise silent which was decidedly odd for the forest. She hadn't heard it this quiet since the last time a pack of wolfos had had the unfortunate idea to put down camp nearby. The fur rug did look grand in front of her hearth, though. Giving a wicked little smile she finally cleared the trees to see the springs, and paused just beside the last tree to thump her now dead pipe against the trunk.

Baba pocketed her pipe, though she never once looked away from the little body laying half in and half out of _her_ spring. "Oi, you there!" she called, voice rasping a bit on the end. "What d'you think you're doing?"

She didn't even get so much as a twitch in response. Of all the rude little whelps! Baba stumped over toward the edge of the spring and came to a stop a few steps from the intruder. They were covered in thick red mud that barely let the color of their skin show through. Their wild mop of shaggy blond hair was matted to the side of their head, and she almost doubted they could breath with the way their face was pressed into the dirt. The runt couldn't have been more than ten years old. Baba looked around exaggeratedly in search of some form of guardian, and upon finding none scowled back down at her interloper. She lifted her cane and used the carved wallmaster fist on the end to prod the runts shoulder. "Hey, runt, get up and get out." Still no response. The runt was apparently out good. She prodded them a bit more for good luck.

Baba gave a put upon sigh, then gave her cane a shake until the wallmaster opened its hand and she could use it to flip the runt over. The runt turned out to be a little boy. Though the why of him being here escaped her entirely. Apparently one of the goddesses had thought it'd be funny, she expected. Deities were like that: The whole world was a joke to them. As she watched he opened bleary red eyes. They tracked back and forth restlessly from behind half closed eyelids and thick, pale eyelashes. Consciousness didn't wait around for the kid, though, and a moment later his eyes rolled back and he sagged back into unconsciousness again.

"Damn," said Baba. "You're more trouble than you're worth already." She released her cane which stood patiently at her side, and nodded once. "Go back to the hut and get some help. I ain't carrying the muddy little cur." Her cane scrambled and hopped off, while Baba pulled her pipe back out and sucked on the end. She didn't know what she was going to do with the stray, but she might as well do something. It wasn't everyday that you had a weird little brat dropped in your lap.

If nothing else it was better than having him rotting up her springs if he died there.

* * *

Emptiness, nothingness, void; all that was was the void, and all that existed was blankness. Something trickled into the void and, with what it brought, the emptiness began to fill.

Self awareness; heartbeat, the strange fluttering that was there, the pulse that throbbed.

Understanding; The throbbing pulse was in the neck, the heartbeat beneath the breast bone located in the chest with the ribcage.

Senses; Heat all along the left side with a popping and cracking sound, there was fire there. The ground was stiff and unforgiving like stone or wood, but also soft and tickling, a swath of fur was below. Light stung along corneas as eyelids flickered open to see part of a low wooden ceiling made of rough rafters and, more importantly a large skull connected to a skeletal canine body with a rough shock of shaggy dark gray-green mottled fur along the spine. Air was inhaled, sharp and hard until the body responded automatically and a fit of coughing began. The canine beast jerked away and clicked off neatly on it's bony claws. A few feet away in a plush looking armchair the large eyes of an orange and white tabby stared with a bored, unconcerned air.

Motion came in the twitch of fingers and the rough jerk of rolling over. The palm of a hand skidded against soft, well kept fur and onto polished floor boards, and the body slumped down, chin thumping against the padding of the fur. Knees were gathered beneath a small naked body, and hands were used to prop that body up onto shaky feet while another fur fell away into a pile with the others. Wobbly foal's legs propelled them forward while shaky hands sought a nearby shelf. The void was gifted with more understanding: To walk one must simply put one foot before the other and not fall to the ground, it was a simple ancient rhythm. So, then, a thought wandered into the void supplied by the previously empty mind, if it was so simple why was it so hard to remember how?

There was a creak, and then the click of the monster's claws was back. Tension rippled through muscles weak as a new born kitten's, and a hand braced on the shelf weakly while another searched frantically for a weapon, any weapon at all. A flash of frustration swelled and dipped, because there should be weapons at hand _always_ and there wasn't now. Panic replaced the frustration as the creature—a stalhound some strange recollection insisted—wandered near. Then a thump and the sound of footsteps came, and a rough-sharp voice barked, "Dog, leave him be."

Him? Who was him? Confusion came in the stead of panic, at least until a blunt, skeletal nose was prodded into a tender side and all sense of balance was lost. The shelf really was the only saving grace, and something that must have been pride stung at the mortifying image that was being presented: Naked and clinging like a fool to a hunk of wooden furniture. But, there was something more important, that being the old woman standing not but three feet away beyond which the stalhound had retreated. She was old, her face marked with a lifetime's worth of wrinkles, her nose hooked and hawk-like, and her hair white, wild and twiggy. The old woman had arresting eyes: Pale and sharp. She was small though, barely any taller than the handy shelf.

"Well, boy?" the old woman snapped sharply. "Who are you then?"

There was only one obvious choice for the address. He was boy then? Somehow that thought created baffling echoes that calmed after a moment. Slowly, he, which still felt odd, released the shelf and looked down at his hands, looked at the dusky flesh, still covered in dried and flaking red mud, stretched over small slender bones. He looked at neatly formed toes against dark hardwood, looked at oddly delicate ankles, and, yes, the Understanding that still sung in the filling void of his mind agreed, bodily he appeared to be that; a he. He took a moment to try and decide if that was really correct, but there was nothing to disagree with the fact that he couldn't be a he. It felt alright in his mind. Finally, he looked back up at the old woman and opened his mouth. It took him several long moments of half formed vowels and consonants before he remembered how to speak. Once he remembered he said, "I don't know."

There was still a void where identity was.

The old woman grunted and tapped a finger against the curve of her cane. He noticed belatedly that it had a wallmaster on the base, it's fingers curled into a fist. With a feeling of trepidation he edged a little further away only to be caught in the blue-green stare of the stalhound. He looked back to the woman and found her shrewd gaze watching him narrowly. She asked, "What do you know, boy?"

"Very little, ma'am," he said carefully.

Her age spotted hand dipped into the pocket of her apron, and he tensed automatically though his body felt frail and sluggish. The frustrated feeling of something amiss, of the lack of weapons, came again. "I ain't surprised," the woman said as she produced a pipe, and stuck it between her tobacco yellowed teeth. "Someone has been mucking with time and it seems like you've gotten mucked up with it."

"Amnesia?" he asked, surprising himself. He hadn't even known he knew what that was, but some facts came to light in his mind at it made sense. Amnesia meant your memory was disturbed or lost. He didn't really like the idea of misplacing something like that.

With a noncommittal grunt the woman flipped her cane over and pointed with it. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end when he realized the wallmaster at the end had shifted to point a single finger. "Take a look at yourself, boy, maybe it'll bring something back." He looked to where the wallmaster pointed to see a beaten bronze mirror hung on the wall near where he still clung. It wasn't very good for clarity, nor was it very good in make, but it did the job of showing a reflection. Automatically, as the want to know drove him, he moved toward it. Sounds at the edge of his hearing made him cringe and look, but it was only the old woman muttering to herself. He was able to pick up her words, "And if not, too bad for your rotten luck."

He ignored her and stood on his toes to look into the mirror, though he had to brace his hands on the wall to accomplish it without wavering and nearly falling over. The face that stared back at him was very fair, and a part of his mind insisted it was girlish—what did that matter? A curl of confusion wavered up through him and was quickly repressed in favor of continued staring at the messy blond hair that framed his faced and fell to partially conceal half of it, to the sharp little nose, and the slanted eyes which he could not make out a color for in the sepia and fire colored bronze. The longer he stared the more something tugged at him, and then there was more in the void, as something played before his mind's eye.

"_You will need a different name, one to conceal and hide; you will need a new identity. Here, now, you cannot be yourself."_

_Before him there was another mirror, one of better quality though still as simple in make; it was glass edged with a simple wooden frame, though near the top it grew slightly more ornate. There was an eye shaped crest carved in it. The reflection in the mirror was nearly the same as the one he'd been staring at moment's ago though several years older. The eyes that peered over the white fabric of a partial mask, and through the fall of golden blond hair were red. "I know," he said in a low, smokey, androgynous voice that meshed strangely well with his overall appearance. "I think I shall be Sheik, Survivor of the Sheikahs. It has a nice ring, does it not?"_

"_Sheik, Survivor of the Sheikahs," the other voice echoed. A hand just as slender as the one's he'd been examining not long ago, but larger, adjusted the fall of his hair. He turned to find himself looking at an older woman with pale white hair and eyes just as red as his. She looked strong, her shoulders well muscled as were here arms. Her face was stern, and her dress a little scanty to the point where her breasts looked as if they would escape her bodice, but not as a manner of enticement. It seemed more intimidating, like a battle dress. "Yes," the woman continued. "I think that will do nicely."_

"_Thank you, Impa."_

He blinked away the cobweb like images, and let the frown that had formed on his lips and creased his brows deepen. "Sheik," he repeated, tasting the words, "Survivor of the Sheikahs." But, that made no sense. The memory had been older, and... Wait. Slowly he looked down at his hands, looked at the room around him and frowned. He was... Something in him insisted he was supposed to be older, was supposed to be at least seventeen, and yet... His eyes found his reflection again, looked at the roundness of his cheeks, the wideness of his eyes, and the scrawny line of his shoulders which barely made it into the frame. He looked nothing more than a little boy.

"Is that your name then, boy?"

"I think so," he replied tentatively, still staring at himself uneasily. "But I was older, I think, and I do not believe it was my real name. It seemed to be the name I was going by for some reason, though."

Her cane thumped against the floor, in a gesture of obvious thought before she said, "It's probably something to do with the time that's been mucked with. Echoes, maybe, but it doesn't matter. What matters is if you remembered any of your relations so I can return you and get you out of my hair."

For a moment he felt guilty for imposing, but annoyance at her rudeness quickly overtook the feeling. He wanted badly to tell her how terribly awful she was being, but he suspected that would be rude of _him_. "I remembered someone named Impa, but I do not know if they were a relation. I apologize for imposing as I have." He heard her mutter something about how 'at least he was polite, even if he talked funny for such a runt', and barely kept his face from twisting into a mulish expression. "If it's not too much to ask that I stay a little while longer, or you could point me in the direction of other people..."

She glared at him for several long seconds, and the stalhound behind her wagged it's bony tail. "Fine," she growled at last. "You can stay for awhile, but we best get you cleaned up and find you something to wear. I ain't letting you run around here butt naked like some wild child."

It was only then that Sheik—that really was his name, wasn't it?—realized he was, in fact, naked. He could feel his face heat as he attempted to curl in on himself and hide as much of his body from view as possible. The old woman set to cackling at him, obviously highly amused by his sudden bashfulness. He gave up, scrambled back to the nest of gray furs he'd woken up in, and tugged one of them around him while the woman stumped off. Sheik's cheeks burned, and he buried his face in his hands, feeling absolutely miserable. How embarrassing! When she returned not much later with a bundle of fabric under one arm, which was promptly tossed at him, he wasn't much better. In fact the wicked spark in her eyes made him hunker further into the furs.

"There's a spring down the path. Dog will show you the way," she said, gesturing toward the stalhound.

"Thank you, ma'am," he mumbled while he gathered the bundle up and tried to keep the fur around him. He finally managed to stand up, hampered though he was by the thick fur and the clothes, and headed for the door near which the stalhound happily waited. How he could tell it was happy he had no idea, though the sight of it was enough to bring back a spark of anxiety. In the end, he decided, he'd chance the monster over the old woman.


End file.
